


(i'll never) kiss and tell

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Tour Bus Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:21:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which David has a will of iron, Cook plays dirty, and rules are made to be broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(i'll never) kiss and tell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GiveYouAllTheStars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiveYouAllTheStars/gifts).



> This is basically self-indulgent tour bus sex fic and I blame it entirely on Tia.

David allows Cook to press him back into the pillows, doesn’t protest when the rocker catches his lips in a deep, searching kiss. They’re happy to see each other, David had been so excited to meet Cook on this leg of his new tour, and it’s, um, been a while, so David is totally on board for some kissing.  
  
Well, kissing is maybe a mild word for what they’re doing now. Cook’s got his leg tucked between David’s, his fingers clenched in David’s t-shirt, and they’re both breathing a little hard. Cook’s sucking on his tongue, David can hear his own pulse pounding in his ears, and the air in the bunk is quickly becoming more heated as they press against each other. David knows they need to slow down, cool off, before someone hears them. All of the guys are asleep, though, and it’s not like they’re being  _that_  loud, so it’s okay to curl his fingers in Cook’s hair and return Cook’s heated kisses, breathing hard through his nose so that he won’t inadvertently make a sound and wake the others.  
  
But then Cook’s hand sweeps low over his stomach, trailing further down to play with the hem of his sleep pants, and okay, David’s missed Cook like crazy and would be more than willing to, um, take things further, but there’s a difference between making out in the bus while everyone else is asleep and doing  _that_ , okay, and David has no plans to tempt fate anytime soon.  
  
(He gets kind of, well,  _loud_  sometimes, in bed. It happens even when he’s actually trying to be quiet, but it’s so not his fault, he can’t help it if Cook turns him all, whatever, desperate and moan-y.)  
  
“Mmm,” he groans, trying to keep his voice quiet while he reaches for Cook’s wandering hand. “We can’t, Cook.”  
  
Cook presses a rough, somewhat scratchy kiss to his cheek, his jaw, and seems content to spend a few moments sucking a bruise to life along the line of his throat. David’s fingers tighten in his boyfriend’s hair, his eyes fluttering closed. He knows it’s obvious how Cook is affecting him; there’s no doubt Cook can feel him against his thigh, and he wriggles away from Cook’s devilish mouth to give him a  _look_.  
  
“That’s not going to work, Cook,” he says, and tries not to crack a smile when Cook sighs piteously, slumping down until his chin is buried in the curve of David’s shoulder.  
  
“You’re really gonna hold out on me until hotel night, Arch?” he asks, the scratch of his beard against David’s skin more than a little ticklish. David squirms, holding in a laugh, and nods resolutely.  
  
“You bet. It’s the rules, Cook.”  
  
Cook raises his head to shoot David an incredulous look. “They’re  _your_  rules, Arch,” he says, shaking his head. “And they’re unnecessary. Do you  _want_  me to tell you how many times I heard Neal and the guys jerking off on the bus back when I toured with them? Monty will tell you, too – “  
  
David makes a face, slapping his hand over Cook’s mouth before he can say anything else. “That really won’t be necessary, Cook. Really.”  
  
Cook shrugs, just before David feels a wet tongue slide over his palm. He yanks his hand back, narrowing his eyes at Cook’s mischievous grin. “ _Gross_ , Cook,” he says. He wipes his slick palm on Cook’s shirt, not that it seems to faze his boyfriend at all. Jerk.  
  
“I’m just saying, Arch. No one’s gonna care if we do anything. Hell, they’ll probably sleep through it.”  
  
“Unlikely,” a voice pipes up from above them, muffled and sounding a little annoyed, “if I can’t sleep through your loud mouth. Go to sleep and stop bugging Archie, asshole.”  
  
David gives Cook a pointed look, as if saying  _See?_  and Cook sighs.  
  
“Fine,” he grumbles, voice muffled against David’s t-shirt. “One more week to go. We’ll see who caves first.”  
  
  
  
It’s a little strange being on the road with Cook and the guys. The last time David had been on a tour bus had been back in 2011 before he’d left for his mission, and it’s a lot to get used to. It’s not like Cook or his band are hard to live with or anything – the bus is kept surprisingly tidy considering it’s housing five guys, and it’s nice and spacious and easy to move around in. The sway of the bus over the wheels is actually kind of comforting, and being with Cook makes David remember the Idol Summer Tour, how they’d stay up late in the lounge talking and eating breakfast together in the tiny area that passed for a kitchen.  
  
He’d never had to worry about Cook trying to jump him back during the Idol tour, though, and it’s – well, it’s a little difficult not to give in when Cook presses against him at night, or when he pulls David into the lounge at the back of the bus and kisses him like they haven’t seen each other in years. It’s been about a week since David joined the band on the road; it’ll be another week before they actually stay at a hotel. David remembers what Cook had said – “ _We’ll see who caves first._ ” – and, um, David’s actually kind of worried it’ll be him.  
  
He’d come up with what he called  _The Road Rules_  early on, back when Cook and he were first floating around the idea that David could join him on tour. It might have been a while since David had been on a tour bus, but he remembers how, well, close the quarters were. It wasn’t like the bunks were soundproofed or anything, and he couldn’t exactly trust himself to be, um, quiet, so the rules  _were_  a necessity (no matter what Cook said to the contrary).  
  
Rule number one was simple and to the point – no sex on the bus, only on what David had dubbed “hotel nights.” That way he didn’t have to worry about his volume level or about the guys overhearing them, which would save him a heck of a lot of embarrassment come the next morning.  
  
Rule number two was perhaps even more important – Cook couldn’t try and change David’s mind about rule number one. This was, of course, the rule Cook broke almost religiously.  
  
David couldn’t really say he  _minded_ , though. It had been a while since they were able to be close in that way – Cook had been busy with the tour to promote  _Digital Vein_  and David had been working on finalizing his new album back in Nashville – so it’s not like he doesn’t want Cook to kiss him, or wrap around him at night or whatever. He would just rather they be alone and um, not with an audience.  
  
Not that Cook cares about stuff like that, of course. After a few days he’s pretty much stopped trying to be subtle about what exactly it is that he wants to do to David, curling his hand around David’s thigh when they go out for dinner or burying his fingers in David’s hair when they’re hanging out with the guys on the bus. It’s distracting, and it leaves David hovering somewhere between embarrassment and arousal, counting down the days until they stop at a hotel and trying to remind himself that the rules are there for a reason.  
  
Nights when Cook has a show are kind of a double-edged sword, because while David will never get tired of seeing Cook perform, he knows that his boyfriend tends to be a little more unrestrained once he steps off stage, pumped with adrenaline and the kind of buzz under your skin that nothing except pure exhaustion can really dissipate. David knows exactly what Cook would like to do to work off all of that excess energy.  
  
Tonight even David is beginning to feel that burst of energy beneath his skin, the almost electric charge generated by the audience and Cook’s powerful voice. Sweat shines on Cook’s forehead and in the hollow of his throat, his denim jacket tossed over an amp hours ago, t-shirt clinging to his torso in the heated atmosphere of the bar, and David’s breath sticks in his throat as he watches him from his position in the backstage area, tucked safely away from prying eyes.  
  
He’s singing along with Cook’s voice, his heart pounding in time to the beat of the drums. racing with each burst of notes from Cook’s guitar. He’s hardly aware of Cook’s tour manager and the roadies milling around behind him, so focused on Cook and the band as they crash to the end of  _Firing Squad_.  
  
Cook banters with the crowd afterward, eyes crinkling at the corners as they respond with enthusiasm (coupled with a few racy remarks that make David shake his head and grin, thinking some things never change). Sweating and grinning in the bright stage lights, Cook’s the center of attention, cheeks flushed with exertion and eyes bright with the kind of happiness that David feels himself each time he picks up a microphone and sings. David can’t keep his eyes off of him.  
  
The band ready themselves to begin the next song, Cook shooting a glance his way that David can’t quite interpret. He’s geared up to sing along to  _Better Than Me_ , knowing it’s next on the set list, and so he’s more than a little taken aback once it registers that, um, that’s not the song Cook and the band are playing. Instead of the slow strains of piano music that David had been expecting, coupled with Cook’s low, soulful voice, the band launches into a familiar frantic intro of screaming guitars, and oh. Oh gosh.  
  
“I, I’m never really awake,” Cook rasps into the mic, dark gaze sweeping over the screaming crowd. “You take it all away, until my will begins to break.”  
  
The audience goes absolutely  _wild_ , yelling and screaming and grabbing on to each other, and David? David totally doesn’t blame them. Because this song – he’s always had a – a thing for this song, ever since Cook first sent him the demo, and he’d  _told_  Cook, because clearly David is an  _idiot_.  
  
“You, you’ve got me in your sights,” Cook croons darkly, lips pressed intimately against the mic, and he’s glancing over at David as he sings the words, “You’re doing something right,” a smirk curling his lips because he  _knows_ , he knows exactly what he’s doing and how much this song is affecting David, and David simultaneously wants to kiss him and  _throttle_  him.  
  
He doesn’t sing along to the words, though he knows them all by heart. He can’t, too caught up in the rush of arousal that sweeps through him as Cook’s gravelly voice fills the bar with sound, echoing down the length of David’s spine and making him shudder.  
  
The second verse is somehow worse than the first – Cook barely keeps his eyes from straying to David’s spot backstage, eyes heavy-lidded and so, so dark, and David feels like he can’t catch his breath, like every inhale is saturated with the thick, hot air building up in the bar, Cook’s voice like heat and skin and sex rolled into one heady perfume. He can feel sweat beading along his hairline, his breath coming fast, and it takes him until the end of the song to realize that his hand has clenched within the hem of his shirt.  
  
His fingers feel sore and stiff when he uncurls them, and Cook is looking at him, chest heaving as he draws in breath, seemingly unaffected by the renewed screaming of the crowd. He looks like he wants nothing more than to cross the stage and pull David to him, press him up against the dingy wall and act out every bit of latent lust and desire that he had just been singing about, and David –  
  
David’s tempted to let him.  
  
  
  
David can’t sleep that night. His body’s too hot, his mind replaying Cook’s performance, that  _song_ , on loop in his head until he feels like he’s suffocating beneath the sheets. Cook’s awake, David can feel the curve of his grin against his throat, and he wants to be angry, wants to be indignant, but the arousal swimming through his veins makes that a difficult task.  
  
“Can’t sleep, Archie?” Cook murmurs against his neck, arm tossed over his waist and one of his legs once again tucked between both of David’s.  
  
David breathes very carefully through his nose. “You did that on purpose,” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard over the snores and snuffling breaths of the band.  
  
He feels more than hears Cook laugh against him. “I’m sorry, babe,” he says, stroking David’s side with his palm. “Don’t know what got into me.”  
  
“ _I_  do,” David mutters balefully, staring hard at the ceiling of the bunk so he won’t do something stupid. He’s tempted to go and sleep on the couch in the front of the bus, if only to remove himself from Cook and his stupid voice and stupid smile and –  
  
“Would it really be that bad?” Cook whispers against his ear – he’s not doing it to be quiet, David’s well aware of that fact; he’s doing it to get a rise out of David, pitching his voice all low like that. “What are you so afraid of here, Arch?”  
  
“I’m not afraid,” David returns hotly, turning his head on the pillow to catch Cook’s gaze. “I just don’t want anyone to  _hear_  me. You know how I get, Cook, and I don’t care if the guys are deep sleepers or whatever, do you know how embarrassing that would be if they heard me?”  
  
Cook holds his gaze, palm slowing to a stop against David’s side. “What if I kept you quiet?” he asks eventually, all trace of amusement gone from his voice.  
  
David hesitates; he wants to say no, wants to grasp at the rules he’d set for them from the start. They’re there for a  _reason_ , he reminds himself.  
  
He’s fully intent on telling Cook this, but instead what comes out of his traitorous mouth is, “… How?”  
  
Cook’s lips curl into a slow smile, something dark and mischievous in his eyes. A shudder works its way up David’s spine, and he wonders, faintly, what he’s just gotten himself into.  
  
“I’ll show you,” Cook says, and reaches for him.  
  
  
  
David focuses on the dark ceiling of the bunk as Cook twists his fingers, three of them curling hotly within the cleft of his ass. He can almost taste blood as he bites hard into his bottom lip, trying to regulate his breathing as Cook hovers over him, thrusting his fingers in and out of David at an excruciatingly slow pace.  
  
Cook’s watching him with dark eyes, his lips parted as he breathes shallowly. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, his lips red and swollen from their kisses, and his free hand is clenched in the pillow beside David’s head, waiting.  
  
David knows what he’s waiting for, and he’s determined not to give it to him. He rolls his eyes down from the underside of the bunk above them, meeting Cook’s gaze, his own rife with challenge. Still, he can’t help but arch off the bed as Cook buries his fingers forward again, a gasp escaping his lips despite himself. Cook’s fingers twitch beside his head, though he doesn’t move them, and David sinks his teeth into his lip with renewed fervor, determined not to let another sound escape.  
  
“You’re doing so good, Arch,” Cook rasps, soft enough that David doesn’t bother to reprimand him. At this point he’s too far gone to focus on anything but his tenuous grasp on the sounds which flutter restlessly in the hollow of his throat, just waiting for an opportunity to burst forth.  
  
He nearly loses his control when Cook pulls his fingers free, leaving David feeling empty and exposed. He releases his bruising hold on his lip to croak out, “Don’t, come back – “ and wraps his legs around Cook’s waist, preventing him from moving even further away.  
  
Cook buries his fingers in David’s hair and surges forward to kiss him, slow and thorough, nipping at his swollen bottom lip. His groin presses against David’s, both of them bare, and David chokes out a helpless whimper at the sensation of Cook’s hot, hard length against his own.  
  
“Not going anywhere,” Cook huffs against his cheek, the hand wet with lube curling around David’s thigh, lifting his leg to curve it higher over his back. David bites back a whimper as understanding dawns on him, allowing Cook to maneuver him on the mattress until his heels are digging into Cook’s upper back, his hands clenched in the sheets rucked up all around them.  
  
Cook slicks his hand with more lube, wrapping his fingers around his bare cock, and David squeezes his legs around Cook’s torso at the low, throaty sound that escapes his boyfriend. Anxiety spikes in his blood, though the soft snuffling of the band continues unhindered around them. David holds his breath anyway as Cook guides himself to his entrance, only letting it out in a shaky exhalation as Cook begins to slide in, moving slowly, one tortuous inch at a time.  
  
His face is set in concentration, gaze trained on where he’s disappearing into David’s body, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. David reaches up to brush it away, fingers sliding gently through the wet strands, and their gazes catch as Cook finally bottoms out. The moment is rife with heat, with tension, and the silence of the bus around them only serves to add to the thick, potent atmosphere.  
  
David knows it’s coming, can feel the coiled tension in Cook’s body, see how hard he’s holding himself back, yet the drag of Cook’s cock as he begins to move, sliding out and burying himself back in, is enough to force a grunt from David’s lips. He draws his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down, closing his eyes tightly as Cook continues to move, his thrusts slow, measured,  _lingering_. David wants to cry with how good it is, how unbearable; he feels hypersensitive, the combination of Cook’s slow pace and the lack of noise filling him with a rising sense of anticipation, like something is building in the air around them, building in his belly, his throat.  
  
His stomach clenches as Cook thrusts back inside, harder than before, and his mouth falls open in a silent gasp at the pleasant burn. He wants more, needs Cook to move faster, aching with each slow thrust, feeling his orgasm hovering tantalizingly out of reach.  
  
He tries to speak, but only a rasp escapes, and Cook’s next thrust, his fingers clenching around David’s thighs, steals the words from his mouth anyway. Doesn’t stop him from swallowing, breathing in the hot, stale air of the closed-in bunk, and trying again. “M-move.”  
  
Cook pauses, balls snug against David’s ass as he breathes hard. “What was that, Arch?” he whispers, grinding his dick into David’s body; David tosses his head, panting, and claws at Cook’s shoulders.  
  
“ _Move_ , Cook,” he breathes, louder than he’d intended, and Cook smirks, seemingly satisfied.  
  
“Okay, baby,” he says roughly, pressing his hands to either side of David’s head. “Okay.”  
  
He slides out as slowly as before, David shuddering at the drag of Cook’s dick inside of him, and then snaps his hips forward.  
  
David arches off the damp sheets, a choked gasp escaping him. He fingers scrabble at the mattress, twisting in the sheets just in time for Cook to pull out and thrust back in,  _hard_.  
  
David gasps out, “ _Cook_ ,” voice raspy and far, far too loud, and Cook curls his hand over David’s mouth, pressing down just hard enough to muffle the noises that David can no longer contain.  
  
He’s not even trying anymore to silence himself, can’t, not with Cook angling his thrusts so that his cock brushes against the bundle of nerves that leave David keening. Precome pools on his stomach, his cock bobbing with each of Cook’s powerful thrusts, and god, he can  _hear_  them – the wet slap of skin against skin as Cook fucks him, Cook’s throaty groans that he tries to muffle against David’s chest, his mouth open and panting against David’s skin, and even with Cook’s hand over his own mouth, David can still pick up the sound of his own voice, his mewls and whimpers and gasps of Cook’s name.  
  
He’s so close, just a little longer, he can feel his release rushing through him, just a little more and –  
  
When it hits him it draws the breath from his lungs, leaves him crying out raggedly against Cook’s hand. His cock pulses with his release, cum dripping onto his stomach and into his pubic hair, spurting against Cook’s chest and stomach. He feels wrung out and boneless afterward, slumping against the mattress with a sleepy, sated sigh.  
  
Two, three thrusts of Cook’s hips is all it takes for his boyfriend to join him, and David smiles sleepily as Cook comes with David’s name on his lips, falling to David’s side with an exhausted hum.  
  
“Think,” he huffs, breathing hard, “think I won there, Arch.”  
  
David pats his chest, too tired to put up a fight, and Cook’s laugh rumbles against his side, soothing him. He feels Cook reach for one of their discarded shirts, using it to clean the sweat and lube and cum from their skin, and he turns on his side to curl his fingers against Cook’s chest, letting out a contented sigh as the older man’s arm slips around him.  
  
It’s only as he’s drifting off to sleep a few moments later that he realizes something has changed.  
  
Save the constant rumble of wheels over asphalt, the bus is totally silent. No snuffling, no snoring, no rustle of clothes as the guys turn over in their sleep. Someone coughs awkwardly, and David jerks his head up to pin Cook with a wide-eyed stare.  
  
Cook’s got his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, less out of embarrassment and more out of a need to hold in his laughter.  
  
“Oops?” he mock-whispers, his eyes bright with amusement. David wants to  _die_.  
  
(He’s totally sleeping on the couch from now on.)


End file.
